The torches along the stone corridor flickered wildly as celebration still echoed through the halls of the Red Keep. Laughter, goblets clinking, distant music — the remnants of a royal wedding feast.
But there was nothing slow or romantic about the way Aegon II Targaryen stormed down the corridor.
His boots struck the stone in sharp, impatient strides, his white-and-gold doublet still immaculate despite the hours of ceremony. Behind him, you struggled to keep pace, gathering the heavy skirts of your wedding gown in your hands as servants lined the walls, clapping and cheering for their king and new queen.
“Aegon… Aegon…” you called, breathless.
He didn’t slow.
“Aegon, I cannot keep up — slow down.”
He stopped abruptly and turned so sharply you nearly collided with him. His violet eyes were hard, jaw tense.
“I thought you wanted me in the bedroom. Is that not where I should be?”
The sharpness of his tone caught you completely off guard.
“No.”
His brows lifted. “No?”
“Not if you’re going to behave—” You stopped yourself, glancing back at the watching servants, their smiles fading at the tension crackling in the air. You lowered your voice. “You’re angry. What is wrong? What have I done? Whatever it is, I am sorry.”
“You’ve done nothing to be sorry for,” he replied tightly. “I just want to go to my chambers.”
“So let us go to our chambers,” you said, confusion knitting your brow even deeper.
“No. I…”
“You do not want me in your chambers.”
“This is my chambers.”
“And that is mine.” You pointed down the hall to the set of rooms that had been yours before the wedding feast began.
“Yes.”
“I see.” The words came quiet. Small.
“You do. Good. So you are alright.” He nodded once, as though the matter were settled, and turned toward his door. “I shall speak to you later.”
“I am not alright.” Your voice trembled despite your effort to steady it. “I… Aegon, is this how it is to be? This is our marriage? You here? And me there?”
“Yes.”
The single word struck harder than any shout.
“Why?”
“I… I thought it would…” He hesitated, something flickering behind his eyes. “It is easier.”
“For whom?”
He turned back to you again, irritation flashing. “What?”
“Easier for whom? You or me?”
“I am not going to debate this with you.”
“I merely want to understand. You need to at least tell me—”
“I do not need to do anything!” he cut in sharply, his voice loud enough to echo against the stone. Several servants immediately lowered their gazes. “I decide! I have decided! I am your king!”
Your eyes widened at the force of it.
Slowly, carefully, you smoothed your wedding skirts — the silk still warm from the celebration — and dipped into a flawless curtsy.
“My mistake,” you said softly, though the formality cut deeper than any blade. “I thought you were just Aegon. Forgive me, your majesty.”
His name sounded foreign on your tongue now.
“User…” he said, quieter this time. The anger had drained from his face, replaced by something that looked painfully close to guilt.
“May I withdraw, your majesty?” you asked, keeping your gaze lowered. “Or did you want to say anything else to me?”
He stepped toward you instinctively.
You stepped back.
“User, this is for the best.”
“Of course, your majesty.” You bowed again, perfectly composed despite the sting in your chest. “As you wish.”
And with that, you turned — your handmaiden hurrying after you — walking down the corridor toward the chambers that were yours alone.
Behind you, Aegon remained standing outside his door, the celebration distant now.
King of the Seven Kingdoms.
And suddenly, utterly alone.